


The Threat of Lunch

by sans_patronymic



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Banter, Diogenes Club, Holmes Brothers, Humor, M/M, Pining Sherlock Holmes, Pre-Relationship, Victorian Luncheon Menus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-22
Updated: 2019-06-22
Packaged: 2020-03-07 16:05:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18876541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sans_patronymic/pseuds/sans_patronymic
Summary: Sherlock receives a menacing telegram and Mycroft has some suspicions.





	The Threat of Lunch

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MostWeakHamlets](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MostWeakHamlets/gifts).



The summons arrived on a bright June day in 1881. Strictly speaking, it was a telegram, but a telegram which bore so ominous a tone that to Sherlock Holmes it may as well have been a warrant for his arrest. The missive ran thus:   


LUNCH AT THE DIOGENES THIS FRIDAY OR ELSE.

—MYCROFT.   


Strangely enough, it wasn’t the “or else” which terrified Sherlock, it was the threat of lunch. It was very difficult to escape a lunch. To join someone for a drink was casual enough. Even at tea, one may leave suddenly if the conversation takes an unpleasant turn. There was, however, no excusing oneself from lunch. Whatever Mycroft wished to say, he wished to say it to a captive audience. Sherlock grimaced at the thought.   


“Anything important?” asked Watson from over the top of his newspaper.   


“No,” Sherlock replied, “Merely tedious.”   


He crumpled the telegram in his hands and tossed it into the fire grate.

  


The Stranger’s Room at the Diogenes Club was not much more than a generously-sized antechamber. Two comfortable chairs, a small couch, and a tall, drop-leaf table quite overwhelmed the place. It was also the only room within the club where food was permitted. As a consequence, it was impossible for more than one small party to dine at a time, an arrangement which suited all of the club’s members perfectly. To Sherlock, it felt rather like dining in an over-furnished prison cell.

“Ah, Sherlock, I see you got my telegram. How good of you to come.”   


“How could I refuse such a generous invitation?”   


“Indeed. Have a seat, won’t you? Antoine has prepared quite a spread for us both. You’re still partial to duck, I trust.”   


Sherlock dutifully took his seat. The table was set with a cold luncheon which would make the late Francatelli himself envious: hashed duck and peas, cucumber soup, cold lamb and salad, young carrots and new potatoes, gooseberry and rice pudding.  Whatever may have been said against Mycroft Holmes, no one ever complained of being served a poor meal in his company.    


“Excellent,” proclaimed the younger Holmes around a mouthful of hash, “quite excellent. For what hideous reason have you felt the need to bribe me with such a splendid meal?”   


“Do I need a reason to wish to enjoy fraternal commune with my only brother?”   


Sherlock dipped a carrot in  _jus_. “Usually.”   


“Come now, Sherlock,” blustered Mycroft with just a touch too much scorn to be genuine, “I haven’t seen you since last year. Where the devil have you been keeping yourself?”   


“Here and there. I didn’t think it mattered to you much where I keep myself.”   


Mycroft sighed, or possibly it was indigestion. “You might at least have given me your new address.”   


“You found me well enough.”   


“And are you working?”   


“Oh yes. Just finished something rather grand actually—that Lauriston Gardens business.”   


“Yes, I saw your name in  _The Times_  about that. I thought we’d agreed—“   


“I had no hand in it!” Sherlock protested, “the city reporters were naturally curious as to why the arrest happened at Baker Street. I did nothing to encourage it. It doesn’t do  _me_  any good to have my address splashed about—just leads to certain people sending me threatening telegrams.”   


“But it is wonderful advertising for you, isn’t it?”   


Sherlock, in spite of his best efforts not to, grinned. “Well… yes. I suppose there’s that.”

“That’s a new tie pin, is it not?”   


“Yes. And a new tie, too. So you see, brother Mycroft, I _am_ working.”   


Mycroft sat back in his chair. He brought his broad hand to his chin, worrying the flesh there as a philosopher might his beard. His pale eyes narrowed, his lips pursed in consideration. Sherlock ignored this pontifical display and instead focused his attentions on his cigarette case, opening and closing it several times before making his selection.    


“Now, then, dear brother,” said Sherlock, lighting his cigarette, “Why don’t you ask the question to which you so clearly desire an answer?”   


“Very well. You’ve still your cocaine habit.”   


“Was there a question there?”   


“No, that much is clear. My question is regarding the man you’ve cajoled into sharing your rooms.”   


Sherlock let out a bark of laughter. “You mean Watson?”   


“Yes,” said Mycroft. He produced a small notebook from his waistcoat pocket and proceeded to read: “Doctor John H. Watson, born 1854, London. Parents deceased. One brother, deceased. Medical degree from University of London, 1878. Surgeon-Major in Her Majesty’s army. Received his medical discharge August of last year. Currently receiving a pension of eleven shillings, six pence a day. Current residence: 221B Baker Street, NW. Current debts, eighty-seven pounds, nine and eleven.”

A moment stretched tautly between them. Mycroft kept his eyes on his brother’s face. Something rather like a sneer crawled across Sherlock’s lips. The cigarette was brusquely extinguished in the remains of the gooseberry pudding. The hand which had extinguished it tapped an irate finger against the tabletop.

“What could I possibly tell you about Watson which your spies haven’t already divined?”

“Matters of public record are hardly considered spying,” said Mycroft. “And it is not a matter of public record that concerns me.”

“Let’s have it, then.”   


“Have you established this man in your rooms for the purpose of supplying you with drugs?”   


Again Sherlock laughed, heartily this time, and deep. A marvelous fit of giggles, which did nothing to dissuade Mycroft from supposing there was rather too much vice in the younger Holmes’s life.    


“Well, have you?”   


“What a ridiculous notion!”   


“Is it? An unfortunate soldier on medical discharge; a doctor with adequate access to whatever he may desire; a poor man, with a love of bad cards and slow ponies, hardly back in England a year already in more debt than he could comfortably repay… The man seems rather ideal for such an enterprise.”   


“Then it is fortunate for him that that is not my design—and on my life it isn’t! A resident doctor to supply me with drugs…. Have I become an opium fiend?”   


“Possibly. I haven’t seen you in a year.”

“And alas, how I’ve missed being the victim of such flattery.”   


“Then would you kindly explain why have you taken up diggings with this person?”   


“I thought it would be fiscally prudent,” said Sherlock, chasing a pea across his plate with his fork, more for the pleasure of the hunt than out of any real desire to eat it. “Of course, I didn’t know about the eighty-seven pounds until just now.... Eighty-seven, nine and eleven, you said? Tsk. Perhaps I should reconsider his percentage.”   


Mycroft’s eyes followed the progress of the pea with no small amount of annoyance in their gaze. “His percentage?”   


“Yes—Of my fees. He’s expressed a keen curiosity in my work. He even assisted me with the Lauriston Gardens business, quite to good effect, I thought. It seems only fair that, should I desire his assistance in the future, he should share part of the profits, such as they are.”   


Sherlock’s statement had a stunning effect. This was quite something else, indeed. The elder Holmes sat back in his chair once more and reconsidered the mystery before him. With his arms folded and his chin tucked against his chest, Mycroft was as round and imposing as a Sisyphean boulder, and just as apt to crush a hubristic fellow. Sherlock, quietly setting down his fork, gave up on his pea. For the second time this week, he lamented that there was no escaping a luncheon. Mycroft leaned forward to catch his brother’s eyes—to be certain.    


“I see,” he said at last, nodding to himself, “So  _that’s_  it.”   


“Yes.”   


“And would you say… you’re in  _love_  with this Doctor Watson?”   


Sherlock shrugged and began a concentrated examination of his fingernails.    


“Does he know?”   


“Of course not! I have learned from my mistakes, Mycroft, and I do not intend to have a repeat of the... Trevor incident. I… am quite capable of… policing myself.”   


“I see,” answered Mycroft, then, “Would you look at that—nearly two already. I’m afraid I must be getting back; there are some pressing matters which require my attention this afternoon. Thank you for joining me, Sherlock. I hope I shall see more of you, now that you’ve had a chance to settle in to your new surroundings.”   


“You shall, if only so I may prevent any more wild speculations about my personal affairs.”   


They stood. The both of them considered a handshake and then thought better of it. Instead, they exchanged weary, but benevolent smiles. Before they parted, Mycroft once more withdrew the small notebook from his waistcoat and presented it as an offering.

“Incidentally, I know you disapprove of my methods, but there are one or two additional facts and figures in this notebook which may be of interest to you, beyond the eighty-seven pounds. Take it. Dispose of it, if you wish, burn it. Though, you may wish to read it first.”

Sherlock shook his head. 

“Anything I wish to know about John Watson, I should prefer to find out myself.”

  


Baker Street on that summer afternoon was a frenzy of activity. It had been a lovely morning, but now the sky grew dark and the threat of a thunderstorm hung heavy in the air. As the wind picked up, the denizens of Baker Street beat their retreat. Newspaper-vendors and vegetable cart owners hastily packed their wares; children vied for the best dry places to wait out the storm; a very smug-looking umbrella owner made his way leisurely towards the park. The rain began to fall just as Sherlock made a dash through the front door of 221B.   


Inside was the picture of calm. The ticking of the hall clock kept time for the  _allegretto_  of raindrops against the windows. In the sitting room, Watson was seated at his desk, scribbling away at something so intently that he did not bother to look up in greeting. Sherlock settled into a chair by the window and watched for some minutes as Watson remained hard at work.   


“Holmes,” said Watson, still half-buried in his papers. “Do you remember that case of yours from March? The Drebber case? I’ve just been going over my notes and, you know, I really think there’s a story to be had there.”   


“What sort of story?” asked Sherlock.

“Well, something rather like a detective story, I should think. Only more scientifically sound, of course, as I’ve the facts to guide me.”

“My dear Watson, I had no idea you were literarily inclined.”   


“No? Perhaps I’m not. Though I confess, I should like to be…” He gave wistful sort of shrug, then added, excitedly: “In any case, what would you say to dinner at Simpson’s tonight?”

“An excellent idea, Watson! I should be delighted,” Sherlock paused, remembering the eighty-seven pounds. “But only if you will agree to be my guest.”   


“I wouldn’t dream of it!”   


“I insist.”   


Watson frowned. Perhaps he, too, was considering those eighty-seven pounds. “Well… if you insist.”

“I do.”   


“Just as you like, then,” answered Watson, before returning to his papers.

In Sherlock’s opinion, Watson had never looked so charming as he did sitting there, gnawing absently on his fountain pen. Sherlock still did not know if his affection could be called ‘love’. A pity, then, that he was not seated where Watson was and could not see the smile on his own lips, or the light which shone in his eyes—for there he could have found his answer.


End file.
